Chasing the Golden Hoard: the Story of the Lydian Hoard: A Tale of Theft, Repatriation, Greed & Deceit

By Kurt M. V. Rich

The theft of the numerous archaeological artifacts which comprise the so-called Lydian Hoard (Karun Hazineleri or Karun Treasure, in Turkish) is legendary. So too is its discovery, the lawsuit which embroiled the Republic of Turkey and the all powerful Metropolitan Museum of Art for almost six years, and the surprising problems encountered after the treasure had been repatriated to Turkey. With the possible exception of the exploration of the tomb of Tutankhamon, no other archaeological discovery can compete with the Lydian Hoard for its mystique and intrigue. No other archaeological discovery has influenced and destroyed as many lives as the Lydian Hoard.

Chasing The Golden Hoard follows the lives of a Turkish family living on the outskirts of the modern town of Usak in southwestern Turkey as they accidentally discover an unplundered Sixth Century B.C. tomb, dating from the reign of Lydian king Croesus (Karun, in Turkish).

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477283851

Kurt M. V. Rich

The author is a former teacher of Ancient & Mediæval European History in the metropolitan Washington, D.C. public and private school systems. He has had a lifelong interest in the civilisations of the Ancient Near East, the Classical World, Mediæval, Renaissance & Reformation Europe. The author continues to have a deep interest in art, architecture, archaeology, literature, theology, geology, and prehistory. He is also the author of photographic studies of Etruscan Tomb Art and the Hermitage, Home of President Andrew Jackson near Nashville, Tennessee. His exciting and detail-packed first novel, Chasing the Golden Hoard: The Story of the Lydian Hoard, A Tale of Theft, Repatriation, Greed & Deceit, was conceived while reading a popular history of archaeological thefts. Ideas behind the inspiration for the story of Re-Creating the Cretaceous, A Tale of Survival were accumulated over a period of approximately six weeks of reading and research. The author currently resides in Houston, Texas and may be contacted at [e-mail] .

Book preview

Chasing the Golden Hoard

The Story of the Lydian Hoard

A Tale of Theft, Repatriation, Greed & Deceit

Kurt M. V. Rich

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© 2012 Kurt M. V. Rich. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/29/2012

First edition January 2013

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8387-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8386-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8385-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012920022

Dust Jacket Photo of Hippocampus or Kanatli denizati, Courtesy of P. Tronchin.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

List of Illustrations & Maps

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Conversion Tables of Metric Weights & Measurements

About the Author

List of Illustrations & Maps

Map of Modern Turkey

Lydian Coin, Early 6th Century B.C.

The Lydian Empire, Ca. 560 B.C.

Lydian Gold Stater, Ca. 560 B.C.

Hippocampus Brooch (Kanatli denizati)

Karun Treasure, Uşak Archaeological Museum

Conversion Tables Metric Measurements & Currencies

The following story is based on a series of historical events. The characters in this book, however, are either an amalgam of multiple real life characters or totally fictitious. The resemblance of any character portrayed in this book to any person, either living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintended.

To the brave men and women throughout history who have sacrificed themselves and their lives for peace, freedom and the basic rights of all mankind.

Modern%20Turkey.jpg

Map of Modern Turkey

(Courtesy: WorldPress.org)

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Sounds of lightly tapping sleet hitting his hotel window had awakened Ergün Bektur much earlier than his planned seven o’clock wake-up call. It was no use staying in bed, he reasoned, so quietly he arose, slipped into his bathrobe and slippers, then quickly walked to the bedroom window. Peering out from behind the thick drawn dark blue curtains from the twelfth floor of his suite in the Plaza Hotel, he expected see the great green expanse of Central Park lying below him just as he had seen it for the past ten days. Today, however, the only thing which lay in front of him was a mass of thick almost impenetrable clouds, enshrouding not only Central Park but everything at a distance of fifty metres from his window and beyond. It was going to be a day to remain indoors. In spite of the intemperate weather, nothing could dampen Bektur’s euphoric feelings. The day was now Friday, October thirty-first, his special day, a day five years in the making, a day in which he would shine as a hero not only for his country but he would also strike a blow against the rampant pilferage of archaeological treasures around the world.

Bektur glanced over to his bed, seeing the rumpled covers, sensing his sleeping guest had not been disturbed. In spite of the muted darkness of the room, his eyes soon adjusted. He silently picked up his attaché case, cigarettes, and cell phone, then moved to the outlying room. A mixture of sleet along with the low lying fog had combined to produce an eerie white glow from the large draped living room window. Bektur placed his attaché case on a round end table near the window, turned on the table lamp, then slowly began to pull back the shrouding drapes. The room was immediately flooded with a bright, reflected white light which made the table lamp almost superfluous. Seating himself in a large dark tan overstuffed leather chair near the corner table, Bektur glanced about for the TV remote control. While sleet and near freezing temperatures had been forecast for the morning, he had hoped the conditions would not affect his planned late afternoon flight to Istanbul. Within seconds, the large screen LED wall mounted TV flashed on. WABC was giving a detailed summary of the day’s projected weather and driving conditions. He was relieved. If things went as planned, the sleet would end by 11:00 and a high of 3°C was predicted by 15:00.

Bektur glanced at his Tag Heuer watch. It was now 06:32. He realised it was time for fajr, or the early morning Muslim prayer, so he unrolled a silken prayer rug he had placed near the table the night before and spread it out in front of him. He walked quickly to the kitchen in his suite, removed his bathrobe and slippers, then washed his face, hands and feet. Grabbing a nearby towel, he dried himself, and walked back to the living room. Standing at the end of the prayer rug, he faced the window, silently focusing on the moment and the events of the day ahead of him. Today there was much to do and also for which he should give thanks.

After the completion of his prayers, Bektur settled back into his chair, sensing an uncertain queasiness in his stomach. It was a sign of far too many Western indulgences he had allowed himself over the past ten days. Too many rich meals at Per Se, Le Bernardin, Nobu and Daniel’s, the very best of the best in New York City he thought. He had consumed truffles in puff pastry, tagliolini with sea urchins and caviar, fusilli with octopus and bone marrow, canard à la presse (pressed duck), langoustine and foie gras, black cod with miso, smoked-salmon Croque monsieur with caviar, and turbot with wild mushrooms. These profligacies in such abundance, he reasoned, were something neither sultans nor the emperors in Rome or Constantinople had ever enjoyed. Now, regretfully, they were but memories, expensive ones which his government had briefly granted him as a reward. Satisfied with the day’s weather projections, he turned off the TV and began to pull out a ten page document from his attaché case, placing it on the leather ottoman in front of him. As he began to spread out the document, another small bundle fell from his attaché case, landing near his feet on the thickly carpeted floor. It was Bektur’s Turkish passport and wallet. Picking up the wallet, he could see the photographs of his family, his wife Latife, son Kemal, and daughter Sabhina. He looked wistfully at the photos, then smiled. God willing, he would be seeing them again within the next week. Carefully he folded the documents and placed them back into the attaché case, then closed the top.

Lighting a cigarette, one of his favourite Gitanes Bleus, Bektur deeply inhaled. He had just started to read through the opening paragraph of the contract when he heard a distinct noise from the bedroom door he had left cracked. Ah, someone is awake now and taking a shower. The day, it seemed, was now starting off at a faster pace than he had imagined.

Putting down the Gitanes and exhaling a small cloud of its smoke, he glanced over at a new LCD interactive screen menu the Plaza had installed for its customer’s convenience requesting room service and in contacting the concierge. Too much technology and far too many details to worry about this morning was his instant assessment of his needs versus a solution. Instead of the menu pad, Bektur picked up the phone and punched in the number for Room Service. A male voice, speaking British inflected English answered the phone. Good morning, Sir. Plaza Room Service. How may we help you today, Sir?

Bektur responded, I would like to place an order for breakfast.

What would you like today, sir?

I am particularly ravenous this morning, he lied uneasily, and would like double orders of your fresh fruit compote, Greek yogurt, croissants, marmalade, soft scrambled eggs, two rashers of Applegate Farms peppered bacon, and a large carafe of steaming hot French Roast coffee. The thought of such vast quantities of food on top of last night’s meal of Oysters and Pearls (tapioca and caviar) and trout meunière with jumbo lump crabmeat at Per Se was beginning to unsettle Bektur’s stomach.

It is 6:45AM now, sir. We can have your meal delivered to your room in twenty minutes, sir.

"That would be perfect. Oh, yes, would you also send up a copy of today’s Times newspaper with breakfast, please?"

Gladly, sir. Anything else for you this morning, sir?

Yes, please bring up place settings for two today with the meal. I may be joined by my colleague for breakfast before we leave today. Thank you.

Bektur quickly perused the contract agreement in front of him, rose from his chair, furtively glanced again at his watch to reassure himself of the correct time. He bent over to pick up the still lit Gitanes and moved to the expansive window overlooking the mist and clouds which still blanketed nearly all of Central Park, cigarette in hand. When it snows here, he mused to himself, the view must be magnificent. He was still wrapped in his thoughts when an arm from behind encircled his waist, pulling him backwards. A second arm then clung tightly to his chest. A German-accented voice softly whispered into his ear, I am going to miss you.

I shall miss you too. I hope you know that, Bektur whispered in return.

These past few days have been magical. Once you return home, I know you will forget me, was the response.

Forgetting you and forgetting the times we have spent together will be a total impossibility. The sad thing is we both realised this was going to be short-term, it could not last. Bektur then turned around, looking squarely into his friend’s sharply angled face, still wet matted blond hair, sensuous pouting lips and sky blue eyes. There was a hint of a tear in one eye. We both knew this day would come. We both sensed it would happen eventually, even on the first day we began.

Perhaps one day you will again return to New York City?

Meaning more pilfered Turkish national treasures will again find their way to New York, he responded sardonically. God willing, I hope not under those circumstances, not ever again. You know what our contract agreement with the Met says. Yes, I shall be back here again. That is a given, but not any time soon. Think positively. God willing, there will be other times and other places outside of New York when we can get together again. Berlin, Paris, Rome, London, Athens, Cairo, the Riviera, Cannes, Bodrum, or even Izmir. The possibilities are endless.

The conversation came to an abrupt halt with a sharp knock on the door and a muffled sound of Room Service being called from the hallway. Bektur looked at his friend, nodding towards the bedroom. It was now briefly time to disappear.

As the bedroom door quietly closed, Bektur slowly opened the door to his suite. Two freshly starched Room Service attendants quickly wheeled the breakfast feast towards the suite’s dining room. Within moments the dishes had been spread across the table. The Limoges china, Puiforcat silver, Waterford glassware and thick starched Irish linen napkins had found their proper place. A large bowl of freshly cut pineapple, kiwi, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, cantaloupe, and grapes was the centrepiece of the display. Several small jars of Scottish and French marmalades sat next to a linen draped silver basket of still warm croissants. Large highly polished brass cloches, or domes, concealed the plates of warm scrambled eggs and thickly sliced aromatic strips of bacon.

"Our chef sends you his compliments and gratitude, sir. Courtesy of our chef, here is a two litre thermos of hot water, a strainer and a container of Haney & Sons Anji Bai, a soothing pale green Chinese tea. Shall I prepare tea for you or pour your coffee, sir? The coffee is Kona Estate which we received only yesterday. On our way out of the kitchen, I brought some of the Kona just for you. Even our head chef doesn’t know we have it."

No, no thank you. Everything is perfect. I need to wash my hands first before I begin. Even if it is Kona, the coffee can wait…briefly, Bektur said, giving the attendant a sly, knowing wink. Bektur quickly scanned the table again. His smile was his signal of approval. He reached into the left pocket of his bathrobe, producing two crisp twenty dollar bills. For the both of you. Thank you again for your service today.

With the sound of the closing front door, Bektur now opened the door to the bedroom. He grasped his friend’s hand as the two walked across the suite’s thick blue Aubusson carpet into the dining room. As both began to settle into their seats, Bektur again glanced at his watch and spoke. I’m sorry it’s not Le Bernardin and I can’t… or won’t… begin to attempt to replicate afternoon tea at the Palm Court, so this morning I hope you don’t mind, waving his hand over the breakfast spread before them. Bektur’s friend had long ago noted that the sight of him checking the time meant he had switched automatically from his casual to business mode. There would be little or no more small talk from this point forward.

What is your schedule for the remainder of today? It was a modest attempt by his friend to elicit a conversation.

It is 07:16 now. I shall need to shower at 08:00, dress and be in the Plaza’s lobby by 08:30. The Met is sending its car and driver over again to pick us up today at 08:45. We should normally arrive at the Met in less than ten minutes. The weather outside this morning, unfortunately, may make our trip somewhat longer than we had planned. The morning’s forecast on WABC was not encouraging. Our meeting with the Met and their attorneys is scheduled to begin at 09:30. Inasmuch as we spent the last three days working on the terms of our ten page agreement, everything this morning should flow smoothly…and quickly. Once we have visually accounted for all pieces in the Karun Treasure, they will then be packed and sealed in our presence. After that we shall take formal possession of the boxes, be driven to JFK by the Met, registering our documents and cargo with customs. At 14:45 or soon thereafter, God willing, we should be on our way back to Istanbul. Bektur again glanced at his watch, quickly adding a postscript, "I shall also be glad at last to have the Met’s arrogant and insufferable Philippe de Montrachet and his two scoundrels, Francis Richards and Lee van Amstel, out of my life for a very long period of time.

Enough now of business, he surprisingly said. I asked for a hearty breakfast to be brought up this morning so that both of us could enjoy it. Please begin. Bektur then unexpectedly stopped as if he had just become lost in the middle of a train of thought, stood and walked toward the window. He opened his attaché case and pulled out his wallet and walked back into the dining room. As his friend was beginning to enjoy the surprise proffered feast, Bektur opened the wallet and counted out five one hundred Euro notes, laying them stacked neatly next to his friend’s now overflowing plate. Our agreement was made in American currency, but regretfully I have been unable to get near a bank in the past few days to exchange these. I hope the sum, once converted, will more than suffice for the inconvenience. You should have no trouble exchanging them, he said with a knowing smile.

Within seconds, Bektur’s cell phone rang. He reached across the table, recognized the caller, and answered in Turkish. The conversation was brief, then he hung up. That was Fatih, my cousin, the head of this little expedition, he said with a slight grin. He was just making sure I would not oversleep on our last day here. He asked me to join him in his suite for breakfast, but I lied…slightly. I told him I had already eaten and was about to shower. I shall, however, have to meet him downstairs at 08:30 before the driver arrives from the Met. Now, God willing, he sighed, let us at last have some peace and enjoy breakfast.

Minutes later, as the very last of the breakfast items were disappearing, Bektur’s link with humanity seemed to surprisingly return. The Kona coffee had quickly disappeared. Now Bektur had turned his attention to the aromatic invigorating Chinese tea. Oh, no, he’s looking at his watch again, his friend silently cringed. Surprisingly Bektur looked up, staring directly into his friend’s angular yet doleful face and said, It is now 07:42. I shall need to shower, shave, get dressed, finish packing and meet Fatih in the lobby at 08:30. There is, I believe, extra soap, shampoo and towels and there is also ample time for a quick shower this morning. I fear I shall require the assistance of someone who has already taken a shower to help wash my back, yes?

At exactly 08:26, Ergün Bektur walked into the ornate marble lobby of the Plaza Hotel. On this unusually cold but auspicious morning he had decided to wear a dark brown suit purchased earlier in the week from Brooks Brothers. Unfortunately, the morning’s frigid weather and sleet meant Bektur’s new suit would have to remain concealed under his older but no less resplendent cashmere topcoat and scarf until he had reached the Metropolitan Museum. He looked across the lobby to see his associate Fatih completing the details of their checkout with the concierge, and arranging for the pickup and transport of their bags from the hotel to JFK. Within a few minutes Fatih had joined him. They greeted each other with a smile, hug and a look of firm resolve each would need to complete the day. The hotel’s concierge had been nearly inundated earlier. He who had seemed on the verge of collapse with a barrage of requests to move, amend or cancel its guests’ appointments, flights and meetings as a result of the early morning ice storm now found himself with a new burst of energy. He quickly walked up behind the two men to announce, Mr. Çam, Mr. Bektur, your car from the Met has just arrived and is now waiting for you. May we assist you with any additional bags or briefcases?

Bektur looked at Fatih who was now shaking his head. No, thank you. I believe everything has been taken care of and is in perfect order this morning. Thank you again for your service. Fatih adjusted his glasses then reached into his overcoat’s left breast pocket and withdrew a twenty Euro note. Folding the note in half, he handed it to the concierge. It was now time to leave.

The distance between the Plaza Hotel and the Metropolitan Museum of Art was less than two kilometers, barely ten to fifteen minutes away in normal times and urban driving conditions. This morning both the time and driving conditions would be tested with slick icy roads and finicky drivers. It also afforded Ergün Bektur a brief unexpected opportunity to reflect upon his lifelong friendship with Fatih Çam.

Bektur and Çam were third cousins, living on separate estates subdivided over subsequent generations from a common ancestor awarded nearly five hundred hectares of land by the sultans for meritorious service nearly three centuries earlier. Fatih, who had just turned forty-four, was two years older than Ergün. Both had grown up around the farming towns of Güre and Uşak in western Turkey. At 1.72 metres, Fatih was the taller of the two and noticeably taller than most of his countrymen. Fatih’s inherited porcelain white complexion, Roman nose, light brown eyes and reddish brown hair resulted in him constantly being mistaken for a native European during his frequent strolls in Oxford, London and on the European continent. While Fatih had grown up being mostly surrounded by books, Bektur had learned to love both books and to appreciate the outdoors. Bektur was devoted not only to strenuous workouts, tennis and jogging, but three times each week he would also swim at least one kilometer during the morning before going to his office. For a man of forty-two and in spite of his frequent lapses of smoking, drinking and dining, Bektur’s body remained amazingly resilient, trim and hard. His dark intense probing eyes, light complexion, infectious smile, deprecating manner, chiseled pectorals and abdomen had worked their charms on many. Both men cut dashing figures in business suits and formal wear. While Fatih’s family’s wealth enabled him to afford the best of tailored clothing at any shop in Turkey or Western Europe, it was his cousin whose custom tailored suits best displayed his large powerful hands and muscular torso. Each son had excelled academically at an early age. Both families had also instilled their sons with a deep appreciation for their country’s rich historic and artistic past and had developed in each an intense desire to preserve and protect Turkey’s artistic treasures. Çam’s family, the wealthier of the two, had recognised their son’s talents at an early age, sending him off to study the civilisations of ancient Anatolia, as the Turkish peninsula is sometimes known, first at Cambridge and later at Oxford. Had he amounted to little or nothing in England, at least he would be able to return to a life as a gentleman farmer. To everyone’s delight, Çam surprised his family as well as himself. While at Oxford he developed an even deeper interest in the Hittite civilisation and its language, helping to translate and prepare for publication a recently discovered cache of over one hundred twenty pieces of diplomatic correspondence between the Hittite royal court and the pharaohs of the XVIII-XXI Dynasties in New Kingdom Egypt. At the age of thirty, Çam had become Turkey’s wünderkind. It therefore surprised no one when Çam, at age thirty-three, was appointed the country’s Director of Antiquities.

During their youth, both Bektur and Çam had been close friends and intense academic rivals. Bektur’s family knew Fatih’s family had both the wealth and influence to send their son to the best schools in England. Unfortunately, they did not, at least not on such a grand scale. Instead of England, Bektur applied for and received a full scholarship to the University of Chicago in the United States. While the University of Chicago no longer held the universally admired cachet of Oxford or Cambridge, its century old Oriental Institute was a school with an international reputation for excellence in ancient history, art, archaeology, and philology. It quickly became a place where Ergün Bektur soon found himself very much at home. In addition to learning the ancient Hittite language, Bektur quickly mastered classical Greek, Latin, Assyrian, ancient Hebrew and New Kingdom Egyptian hieroglyphics. By the beginning of his second year of doctoral studies, Bektur had already published five articles on pre-Hellenic Anatolian art, four of them as the primary author. To his great surprise later that year, his cousin had asked for his assistance in translating one of the most fragmented and troublesome of the Hittite letters. Bektur agreed and within two weeks had completed the assignment.

Unlike his cousin whose family was wealthier and had a greater degree of influence at home, Ergün Bektur‘s only hope was to draw upon lesser resources. Instead of a position with the Turkish Ministry of Antiquities as he had hoped, only academic posts at the University of Chicago or the University of Pennsylvania appeared to loom on his horizon. Bektur’s mother had died several years before and his father became increasingly ill as he aged. As an only child, the hardship of managing a farm nearly seven thousand kilometers around the world from him would prove to be an onerous task. Unlike his cousin, his family’s homestead would not support a gentleman farmer. Budgetary cutbacks had all but eliminated the possibility of a teaching or research post at either Oxford or Cambridge. Competition for the few remaining positions was stiff. The stately British Museum was also facing its own economic crisis, releasing staff as their contracts expired and hiring virtually no one to replace them. In spite of his love for the city, Chicago’s often severe winters had Bektur constantly re-evaluating his desire for permanent residence there. In his mind, the option of living in Philadelphia did not fare much better. Within Bektur there were other conflicts which were only just beginning to be awakened. As a devout Muslim growing up in Turkey, he had abstained from the temptations of tobacco, liquor and pork, among others. Around new friends in Chicago, things were suddenly different. He had begun to enjoy the proscribed hedonistic pleasures of tobacco, especially French Gitanes and British Dunhill cigarettes, as well as Dominican and Cuban grown cigars. He had also acquired a taste for French and California cabernet wines, French cognac, single malt scotch, Grand Mariner Quintessence and Jack Daniel’s whisky. Applegate Farms organic bacon, Usinger and Paulina Meat Market sausages and eggs became a routine at breakfast while pepperoni pizza, smoked and barbecued pork had become frequent staples of his afternoon and evening diet. If he were to return to live in Turkey, all of these…and more…would have to be abandoned.

While living in Oxford and Cambridge, his cousin Fatih had taken frequent weekend and holiday breaks in London. His restrictive academic life at school had reinforced his intense dislike for traditional British cuisine as it was typified in Oxford and Cambridge. In London instead he actively sought out the delights of the city’s best French restaurants as well as the enticing spicy flavours of the Caribbean and Far East. Trips to Harrod’s were endlessly fascinating as were Fatih’s dreams of one day opening an account at Gieves & Hawkes and shopping along Savile Row. The contents of the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford had only whetted his appetite for antiquities while the British Museum in London, one of the greatest museums in the world, truly mesmorised him. Here he could stay lost for days on end among the treasures of the civilisations of the ancient Near East. Yet at the end of every day, one nagging question continued to puzzle him. Why would each of these great ancient civilisations, even though long since past their power and glory, willingly dismantle and surrender their artistic and architectural patrimony to such a small and seemingly insignificant country like England? None of his Turkish friends could provide him with an acceptable answer, nor could any of his friends from Palestine, Iraq, or Egypt. Çam’s naïveté was about to abruptly end, for he would soon learn the true secrets behind England’s alleged liberation of the Greek Parthenon statues, the so-called ‘Elgin Marbles,’ as well as the careful and often cruel crafting of England’s ascendancy as a colonial empire, and its own distaste for another ancient empire, the Ottomans, whom it had fought, defeated and then abruptly, arbitrarily and almost single-handedly dismantled. He also quickly learned that removed for preservation was a western European euphemism for never to be seen again in its home country.

After having weighed all his available options and after months of procrastination, Bektur had decided to accept an offer of an assistant professorship from the University of Pennsylvania as the best currently available. He had come to terms with many facets of his errant prodigal lifestyle. If kept in moderation, he reasoned, his vices would be acceptable and nearly all could be enjoyed in Philadelphia as well. Two days after the University of Pennsylvania had phoned to let him know they were submitting a written offer of employment for the following academic year, his cousin Fatih had called. Fatih was aware of the University of Pennsylvania’s contract offer, which was no doubt the underlying motivation behind his call.

"My heartiest congratulations upon receiving the offer from the University of Pennsylvania, kuzeni (cousin)," he had said.

"Thank you, kuzeni, I feel very honoured to receive it."

To the contrary, the University of Pennsylvania should be highly honoured to have you on their faculty. However, I hope you have yet to sign the contract. You haven’t signed it, have you?

No, the offer was just mailed about thirty-six hours ago. The mails haven’t been delivered just yet.

"Good. There is something important I should like to discuss with you. I hope you have a few free moments to talk. Over the past few weeks there has been a lot of activity within the Ministry of Antiquities. Some of the decisions we finally made have been in the discussion and planning stages for years. We want to go beyond the massive museums like the Topkapi, offering and supporting the need for smaller museums, containing more locally excavated items so they can be displayed in regional museums throughout the country. Because of recent finds at Ikiztepe, Aktepe and Toptepe, we want to set up an Arkeoloji Müzesi, regional archaeological museum, somewhere around Uşak. We do not yet have a final location or a permanent building site. We need someone with organisational skills, a knowledge of the ancient languages, the actual sites themselves and the artifacts which have been and are being excavated in order to help us make the project and the museum viable. The perfect candidate for Western Regional Director of Antiquities position is…you!"

There was stunned silence on the other end of the phone. Bektur’s response seemed like minutes in coming. He found himself visibly shaking, fighting hard to clear his throat before speaking. I am flattered, flattered beyond words. Yes, YES, Y-E-S, I shall be happy to accept.

I know you have acquired many things during your life in Chicago, you have established some roots and made a number of friends there as well. I know salary is an important matter to you as well. I do not have a final figure yet, but it will at least equal if not exceed somewhat the salary which the university was prepared to offer you. We shall, of course, pay for all packing and moving expenses as well as provide you with a living expense stipend from the date you sign your contract. Tomorrow is Friday. Before we stop for prayers in our office tomorrow afternoon, I shall have my secretary in Ankara e-mail a contract to you. Tomorrow afternoon, your time in Chicago, God willing, you should have both the contract from the University of Pennsylvania and from us in your hands. Take the weekend and review them both. On Monday or next Tuesday morning at the very latest, please let me know your final decision. Please call me in my office on Monday if you have any questions. If you wish to decline the position, I shall not hold it against you. If you accept our contract, please sign and date it, scan the signed document in its entirety and e-mail the file back to me by Tuesday midnight, American time. Agreed?

The solid sound of the closing door on the Lincoln Town Car and the scent of fresh leather had brought Bektur’s thoughts quickly back to the present. The interior of the car was perfectly heated, affording him a clear and almost unobstructed view of the ice now dangling like sheer transparent but artful stalactites from the trees near the edge of Central Park. Fatih sat across from him, bundled tightly in a black woolen top coat with its upturned collar and wrapped in his favourite Black Watch tartan cashmere neck scarf which nearly obscured his face. Two black eyes peered out from underneath Fatih’s black derby hat, glancing quickly from side to side. The darting eyes finally focused on Bektur’s attaché case. Everything is ready and in order? Yes, everything we shall require is ready. Fatih was relieved. Driver, let us now be off to the Met, please. Within seconds the car pulled away from the massive façade of the Plaza Hotel. Both Bektur and Fatih could hear the sounds of breaking ice and the slush from the thawing pavement hitting the underside of their car as it sped away. To their great surprise, there was little traffic, at least so far. We are lucky today, sir, the driver commented. Many people have decided to stay at home this morning. Snow is one thing in New York City but ice is another. Traffic further uptown and in the boroughs is a nightmare right now. Barring an accident, though, we should be at the Met in just a few minutes.

Within seconds of pulling away from the Plaza, the hotel’s concierge emerged from the entrance, holding a message in his hand. He waved at the disappearing profile of the Lincoln, but in vain. The driver had not seen him and would not be returning to the Plaza. The concierge unfolded the message and looked at it. Because of the weather, I shall be late this morning. We shall begin our meeting in Room 212 instead at 10:30 AM. /s/ Francis Richards. It is of no use now, the concierge thought, folding the paper and placing it in his pocket.

The driver’s observations proved correct. In only about ten minutes time the car pulled up at a private side entrance to the Met. Two museum attendants had been stationed inside to await their arrival. As Fatih was about to walk away from the car, the driver rolled down his window. Excuse me, sir. I am to take both of you to JFK as soon as your conference with the Director is finished today. He handed Fatih a business card. Here is my name and cell phone number. Please ask Mrs. Ivins, the Director’s secretary, to let me know just before you conclude your conference. I am to pick you up here. The boxes you pack and seal this morning will also be brought here where we shall load them onto a waiting van for delivery to Customs at JFK. Once the van had been loaded, we shall then leave for JFK. Fatih looked at Bektur who had just walked up beside him, hearing the last of the driver’s conversation. Good to know, he replied, shaking the driver’s hand and motioning Bektur in the direction of the warmer interior. Thank you. See you soon.

Here, would you take custody of this guy’s card? We need to call him about thirty minutes before we’ve finished today. He will transport the boxes for us to JFK, so please remind me, Fatih said reassuringly to Bektur.

It was now 09:00. Fatih, Bektur and their growing entourage were an hour earlier than expected. Their attendants had suggested a diversionary foray to a private museum VIP dining room on the mezzanine floor where breakfast, coffee or tea could be ordered. We need to go directly to the conference room on the second floor where they are expecting us, Bektur insisted. We can always break for food and drinks later in the morning. Here is a lift, so let us go now. With that, all four piled into the unmarked lift. One of the attendants swiped a security card, then pressed a button for the car to stop on the second floor. Within seconds everyone piled out, then quizzically began looking at each other, as none of them had ever been to Room 212, de Montrachet’s and the Met’s fabled sanctum sanctorum, its most private and secret of meeting rooms. After a few missteps, Room 215 had been found down a side corridor, then Room 213-A and finally Room 212. Theseus’ navigation of the labyrinth in search of the Minotaur, Fatih imagined, had probably been easier than finding Room 212. Having escorted Fatih and Bektur safely to the doorway of Room 212 as requested, both museum attendants quietly departed, leaving their charges standing outside the doorway. It was strange, Bektur mused, that neither would follow them inside. It were as if the room had been cursed, Death to those who enter. Since they were early, they would simply make themselves at home and await the arrival of de Montrachet and his pack of wolves.

Fatih was closer to the doorway so it fell upon him to enter first. He grabbed the latch, fully expecting the door to still be locked. The museum’s ubiquitous thumb print scanner beside the door flashed neither red nor green. Someone had deactivated it. To Fatih’s surprise, the latch offered no resistance and no alarm sounded as the door easily opened, revealing a nearly seven metre long outside waiting room with antique dark mahogany wall paneling, a large nearly floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcase, and a large ornately carved ormolu Napoleon III writing desk plus four dark blue leather armchairs which had been curiously arranged in a semi-circle. There was another, noticeably larger office to the right and the hint of a hallway and an even larger room on the left. Fatih and Bektur could hear muted noises coming from the larger room beyond. Both men quickly walked down the short thickly carpeted hallway and into the larger brightly lit back room. They had come virtually face-to-face with the Met’s Assistant Director of Near Eastern Antiquities, the imperious and sartorial Francis M. Richards. Richards’ tall muscular 1.8 metre frame was turned with his back toward the door. He had been bent over one of the tables containing a number of the Karun artifacts displayed in a grid. Next to him were two other large tables laid out in a similar grid fashion. In total, the three tables contained three hundred sixty-three artifacts, the entire contents of the famous Karun Treasure, which all parties had agreed to jointly inventory today before packing and repatriating back to Turkey. For some unexplained reason, Richards had seemingly started the inventory early and, by all accounts, had done so without anyone’s presence. Now, he had obviously been surprised. "Piç (Bastard)! Fatih thought. Francis quickly stood erect and turned around, his left hand remaining for the moment in his jacket pocket. His right hand held a large ivory handled magnifying glass. You’re early. Because of the weather, we did not expect you so soon. Laying the magnifying glass carefully on top of some of the artifacts, Richards quickly proffered a handshake to both men. Extending his right hand exposed the edges of a massive gold Rolex hiding under the starched white French cuff of his Egyptian cotton shirt. For the moment, his left hand remained in his pocket. Richards’ ensuing efforts at small talk was something which Bektur and Fatih both noticed was designed to deflect both their attention and physical proximity away from the numerous pieces which had been spread out on the tables in front of them. Did not you see Dorothy…er, Mrs. Ivins… on your way in? I asked her to wait outside until both of you had arrived. No, she wasn’t there to greet you when you arrived? I am very sorry, I’m not sure where she went. Now come back to the front with me, please. Let me help you remove your coats and outer jackets so you are more comfortable. After that, if you wish, we can begin the final inventory." Richards moved the magnifying glass to a less crowded part of the table, then stepped towards the doorway. Neither Fatih nor Bektur would fall for Richards’ obviously transparent bait. Both were now once again in the same room with the treasure but they were also face-to-face with a third person whom they clearly did not trust. At least one of them was going to have to remain with the treasure at all times until every piece had been properly inventoried, wrapped, packed and sealed before their eyes.

For the moment Bektur appeared to be the one to fall for Richards’ proffered bait. Fatih, let me take your coat, scarf and hat back outside, please. I know Mr. Richards is a very busy man and can’t be pulled away from his last hours with the treasure. Fatih will keep you company, Mr. Richards. Hopefully Mrs. Ivins will return soon as well. Fatih winked, patted his cousin’s shoulder approvingly, sat his attaché case down and began to remove his top coat, scarf, and gloves. Every garment weighed far more than expected, so Bektur quickly headed to the outer office to rid himself not only of Fatih’s wardrobe but to also remove his own increasingly uncomfortable winter bulk. As he was about to remove his neck scarf, Dorothy Ivins, de Montrachet’s buxom fifty-something year old private secretary, opened the door and instinctively turned on the lights. Oh, good morning. You’re early, she said equally as surprised as Richards had been. "We didn’t expect you until 10:30AM. We called the concierge at the Plaza asking him to let you know there was no need to rush. We would start our meeting at 10:30, instead of 10AM. You didn’t get the message? Quelle domage. I am so sorry I was not here to greet you, but I had a personal matter which needed my attention first and we didn’t expect you until 10 or even 10:30. From the back conference room Richards called out, Dorothy, call the kitchen and ask them to send down the coffee, tea and mid-morning snacks now instead of at 10AM. Thank you." As always, Francis Richards was going to have his way.

Among museum administrators in the Western world, Francis M. Richards was a glaring anomaly. For centuries museum caretakers had been exclusively wealthy Western European Caucasians, overwhelmingly scions of patrician families who had grown up living amidst and admiring the greatest surviving art treasures of antiquity. Until the rise of American museums in the late nineteenth century, the inbreeding of museum curators had been almost incestuous. Richards represented the new breed and the dawn of a new era. Born in Jamaica, Richards was the son of a modestly successful middle class business family whose ancestors had been forcibly brought from central Africa in the late seventeenth century, chained as slaves to serve the needs of the growing colonial empire of England. Property records from 1684 of infamous pirate-turned-sugar-plantation-owner and later Lieutenant Governor of Jamaica, Sir Henry Morgan, list a slave named Thomas who, following Morgan’s untimely death in 1688, was sold to a nearby plantation owner, Joseph Richards. A few years later Port Royal property records show Thomas’ descendants eventually adopted their new owner’s surname and remained with Richards’ estate for the next seventy-three years. At the beginning of the twentieth century tax records show Richards’ paternal great-grandfather, Thomas Maxwell Richards, had been a contract labourer in 1904 with the Isthmain Canal Commission, taking two extended turns working on the then-nascent Panama Canal Project. By 1914, Thomas Richards returned to Jamaica, having saved enough money to eventually open a dry goods store in Kingston.

Young Francis had also been a wünderkind in his own right, excelling at both science and mathematics, but attracted more strongly by the tales of ancient empires long since buried and their untold treasures, both real and imagined, which lay waiting his imagined discovery. Indeed, Francis’ boyhood heroes were none other than the legendary Howard Carter, famed discoverer of the tomb of Tutankhamun, and Jean François Champollion who was the first to decipher and read Egyptian hieroglyphics in nearly eighteen centuries. Richards had also been thrilled by the tales of ancient Troy, the deeds of the majestic Pharaohs of ancient Egypt, the heroism of the Greek and Roman demigods and the dedication and focus of German businessman-turned-archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann whose dogged persistence helped him discover and then plunder both Mycenae and Troy. It soon became obvious Francis’ talent, to say nothing of his increasing ego, would find no satisfaction in any Caribbean university. Turning down a full scholarship to study at Harvard, Richards instead chose Cambridge University. Arriving at Cambridge nearly a decade after Francis had graduated, Fatih often heard stories of Richards’ academic prowess and the ego which almost always overshadowed it. Thomas Hornung, then Director of the megalithic Metropolitan Museum of Art, had also heard of Richards’ impressive knowledge and achievements and was keenly interested in adding him to the museum’s curatorial staff. In order to evaluate Richards’ potential firsthand, Hornung had personally interviewed him, hiring Richards twice as a paid undergraduate summer extern, a rarity in a system where internships yield a stipend for little beyond room and board. Upon completion of his doctoral studies, Hornung unhesitatingly offered Richards a permanent post with the Met as Assistant Curator for Greek Antiquities. It became patently clear to all Hornung had placed Richards on a fast track as his Anointed and Richards did not disappoint. In his first year Richards and Hornung had worked assiduously to obtain the Euphronious Krater, a magnificently decorated Greek vase from the Sixth Century BC, discovered under questionable circumstances in Italy. The Met had funded the one million dollar price tag for the vase by selling off part of a duplicate collection of ancient coins.

During Richards’ third year at the Met rumours became rampant that Hornung was being investigated for past directorial improprieties. What followed over the next two years was one of New York City’s worst kept secrets as numerous sworn affidavits and incriminating photographs were presented to the museum’s Board of Directors and, thanks to the voracious New York City new media, soon thereafter widely circulated in public. Sensing the inevitability of his termination, Hornung surprisingly announced his retirement, claiming greener grass beckoned elsewhere. While the dark clouds of Hornung’s investigation hung heavily over the Met, Richards wasted no time ingratiating himself with the New York press and New York society. As Hornung was fast becoming damaged goods, Richards and his wife Juana, herself a well connected neurosurgeon, quickly…and eagerly… filled the societal void left by Hornung. Richards also wasted no time in wooing the museum’s richest benefactors and donors, both current and potential. Some early detractors would later sneer that Richards never met a camera he didn’t like. Heeding the advice of several of Hollywood’s best Black actors who had befriended him, Richards was introduced to the unique sartorial style of Ozwald Boateng, an expatriate fashion designer from Ghana who proceeded to turn the heretofore staid if not moribund fashion world of London’s Savile Row in the 1990’s upon its collective ear. In less than four years Richards had begun to spend not only his own salary but a significant portion of his wife’s as well on the best quality Boateng suits and jackets, Ferragamo and Fratelli Rossetti shoes, Breitling watches, as well as adding a Jaguar, Porsche and matching pair of His and Her Mercedes sedans to his family’s automotive stable. It was also rumoured that no curvaceous pre-menopausal blonde on the Met’s staff was safe from Richards’ roving eye.

Nearly eighteen months after Hornung’s departure, the museum’s Board of Directors had voted overwhelmingly for a safe candidate with the least controversial background and most impeccable pedigree and credentials, Philippe de Montrachet. The second son of wealthy and highly educated French and Swiss-French aristocrats with established centuries-old ties to many of the greatest museums and art houses in Europe, de Montrachet, they hoped, would attract far less lightning than Hornung. Chosen at the age of sixty-five, de Montrachet would also bring much needed but short term stability to the Met. As he aged, the Board of Directors reasoned, they would have sufficient time to search for…and groom… a stable Director to lead the museum into the twenty-first century. While meeting with his curators and directors in the months following his appointment, de Montrachet discovered in Richards a personality which not only craved the limelight and excelled at obsequious flattery, but also was willing to discreetly flaunt conventional methods of conducting business, eager to acquire artifacts of questionable provenance (previous ownership or source of origin) in order to expand the museum’s holdings…and, in the process, to satiate his own personal ego. Richards had been made aware of the consequences of illicitly acquiring antiquities of questionable origin and ownership, having witnessed first-hand the implosion of his own mentor and patron Hornung. In spite of this, the prospect of personally possessing the next great archaeological find or of organizing the next blockbuster exhibit for the Met enticed Richards as if he were a moth drawn to a flame. De Montrachet and Richards thus entered their own unique pact of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

During the first four years of de Montrachet’s tenure, Richards had been tireless, personally organising many of the Met’s major exhibitions. Thracian Treasures from Bulgaria was his first success. It was soon followed by Greek Art of the Aegean Isles and the highly acclaimed The Amasis Painter and His World: Greek Vase Painting in Sixth Century B.C. Athens. Soon thereafter Richards became a major participant in helping organise the Met’s blockbuster exhibits, Vermeer and the Delft School, Hatshepsut, Rubens and His Followers, Velazquez and the Golden Age of Spain as well as a massively lucrative touring exhibition of antiquities excavated from Pompeii. He also began to secretly plan what would become his greatest blockbuster exhibit, Cleopatra: The Seven Queens of Egypt. In spite of his success certain countries from the Near and Middle East persistently resisted his overtures. There had been numerous semi-secret trips to Cairo, Tel Aviv, Athens and Rome, with Richards hoping to arrange for the display of some of each country’s finest antiquities. While organising the Vermeer exhibition, Richards had encountered the organisational skills of Lee van Amstel in Boston. Of Dutch ancestry himself, van Amstel had an encyclopaedic knowledge of Vermeer. He also had an amazing in-depth knowledge of North American and European museum holdings, including numerous exceptional pieces which had been obtained from unknown sources. It was a well known secret van Amstel himself, almost as old as de Montrachet, had also assiduously worked over the past four decades to cultivate an excellent direct working relationship with many of the questionable purveyors of antiquities in Europe, the Near and Middle East as well as Asia. Within six months of the close of its successful Vermeer exhibition, the Met, at Richards’ insistence and de Montrachet’s tacit backing, extended an offer of employment to van Amstel. Without hesitation, he accepted.

At precisely 10:00, Philippe de Montrachet opened the dark oaken door to Room 212 and walked in. Since Richards had personally informed de Montrachet earlier he had rescheduled the meeting with Çam and Bektur to 10:30, de Montrachet had assumed he would be the only one in the suite when he arrived. To his surprise he found Bekur engaging his secretary Dorothy Ivins in the outer lobby. From the back conference room he could hear the voices of Richards and Fatih Çam as well. Half sarcastically he announced, Good morning to all. I am happy to see you’ve already started the day without me. He quickly removed his Burberry trench coat, handing it and his black silk umbrella to his secretary. Let us go to the back conference room and begin. Our attorneys called me a short time ago. They’re stuck over on Riverside. It will take them forever to get here. The sooner we start, the faster we shall be finished and, if they’re not here, we won’t have to pay our attorneys.

De Montrachet politely, almost paternally, placed his arm over Bektur’s shoulder, shepherding him to the back room. He glanced over his shoulder at his secretary, saying, When the coffee and tea arrive, please see they are served to us immediately. With that, he and Bektur walked into the conference room and closed the door. Bektur looked quizzically as de Montrachet, then asked, Do I detect the scent of Penhaligon’s today? De Montrachet smiled, nodded, then seated himself at the head of the nearly four metre long conference table which was centred in the room. Although reportedly well into his sixties, de Montrachet looked to be a man only in his early fifties. He was only about 1.6 metres tall, slim, with a rosy flawless complexion, steely blue-grey eyes and a healthy crop of reddish hair which had turned grey around his temples. His dark grey Henry Huntsman & Sons tailored suit, starched white Egyptian cotton shirt and burgundy red silk tie sharply contrasted with the Prussian blue high backed leather armchair in which he was sitting. Instead of his usual vintage Cartier Tank Watch, today he was wearing an impressive gold Calibre 1904 Cartier. De Montrachet briefly surveyed the room, then reached into his crocodile skin briefcase, a souvenir of a shopping spree in Florence, and removed a manila envelope as well as a black leather Cartier case, unfolding a pair of gold rimmed reading glasses which he then placed onto his prominent aquiline nose. Withdrawing a favourite Mont Blanc Meisterstück fountain pen from his right jacket pocket, it was clearly obvious from this point forward who was in command of the meeting.

De Montrachet glanced at Richards. I see Amstel is late again as usual. Have you have already inventoried the pieces on display here this morning and confirmed each one is accounted for and also on the list for export today, Francis? Yes, sir, I have. May I see the list, please? Richards picked up the file containing the inventory list and handed it across the table to de Montrachet who opened the folder and began slowly scanning through the list. After the fifth page, he put the list down and peered over his glasses at Richards. Have you confirmed the weights of each piece which we initially ascertained upon our receipt of the artifacts with either Mr. Çam or Mr. Bektur today or within the past few days? No, sir, we did not have an opportunity to confirm the weights. We spent an extraordinarily longer amount of time preparing terms of the final contract agreement. Richards glanced back at both Çam and Bektur. Both Messrs. Çam and Mr. Bektur have personally handled and had the opportunity to inspect every artifact in the collection numerous times over the past ten days. Yes, I agree, if time had permitted we should have followed protocol confirming the weight of each piece, but it did not. Our agreement was to return three hundred sixty-three artifacts today by noon. I strongly believe Mr. Çam and Mr. Bektur can attest to both the accuracy of the list as well as the authenticity of each piece on the tables behind us. De Montrachet seemed placated, at least temporarily. He then looked toward both Çam and Bektur. Gentlemen, here is the inventory list compiled by Mr. Richards. It shows you will take receipt today of three hundred sixty-three artifacts which are detailed in the list. Do you wish to accept the list as is now from Mr. Richards or do you wish to have an opportunity to further examine and/or weigh any piece(s) which you might find suspect?

Fatih, who had remained in the conference room with Richards, looked at his cousin, and spoke, I have good reason to believe Mr. Richards has compiled a complete and accurate list of the pieces we are to receive today. When the boxes are unsealed, opened and the pieces are put on display in our museum in Gul or Uşak, we shall have the opportunity to re-inventory each piece and also to weigh and measure them again for our records. In the interest of time, I shall have to trust Mr. Richards’ list and his records.

Everyone looked around the conference table, expecting a response from Richards. None was forthcoming. Bektur, who was seated directly across the broad table from Richards, sat quietly waiting for a reply or further comment. Bektur stared pensively at the silent figure of Richards, impeccably dressed in his black Boateng double breasted suit and blue and white striped rep tie, as Richards sat studiously, hunched over the inventory sheets which had consumed their work for the past ten days. As Richards straightened himself up and adjusted his jacket, Bektur noticed that there was something wrong with Richards’ appearance. His white silk breast pocket handkerchief was noticeably askew, not folded neatly in its usual manner. Richards had obviously removed it, he thought, taking little or no care in putting it back properly. Several times since the beginning of the meeting, Bektur had noticed Richards attempting to reposition the pocket square without fully removing it. The more Richards tried, the worse the handkerchief began to look.

When it became obvious neither Richards nor anyone in the room would not raise further questions nor comment on the inventory list at hand, Bektur looked around the room, then uttered Agreed. We accept the list.

With that came a knock on the door. It was Dorothy Ivins announcing, My apologies for the interruption, gentlemen. Here is your coffee and tea. As she pushed the large cart through the door, she was followed closely by another figure, Lee van Amstel, who barely squeezed himself into the narrow space between the tray and doorway. Morning, everyone. My apologies for being late. Food and drink were the perfect way to break the ice of the meeting as well as the pall the unexpectedly dismal weather had spread throughout the city. De Montrachet seized the moment when everyone was beginning to move about the room. He took the inventory list from Richards, flipped to the final page, then signed and dated it. His usual large signature in royal blue ink was clearly visible to all. De Montrachet then passed the document as well as his prized Mont Blanc pen over to Fatih, representing the government of the Republic of Turkey, asking him to sign and make the transfer official. Fatih quickly signed, then returned both the agreement and pen to de Montrachet, who by now was beaming. Oh, Dorothy, please make seven copies of this document. Four for our records and three for the files of Mr. Çam and Mr. Bektur. Please let me have the copies back as soon as possible.

Bektur took the break to pour himself a large cup of hot Darjeeling tea and to discretely examine the contents of the much discussed but little seen conference room in Suite 212. The room was large, close to eight by eleven metres. In the centre was a large intricately carved medieval European refectory (monastery dining room) table where everyone had been sitting. It was easily two by six metres and, for something which he surmised to be nearly five centuries old, in near perfect condition. No doubt it had been made to be used in the refectory of some very large, highly important and very wealthy monastic order. He silently amused himself with the thought, So much for the vow of poverty. The table sat atop a beautiful large original Persian Qum rug, easily two centuries old, Bektur calculated. The walls were painted a dark olive green, contrasting nicely with the gold leaf frames of several conspicuous pieces of art which adorned them. From his seat Bektur could see three matched gold frames, each containing a pen